


Days Without You

by ReinaZanahoria



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Post-The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinaZanahoria/pseuds/ReinaZanahoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has changed his identity and is waiting for Mycroft to write the documents he needs to destroy Moriarty's network.<br/>Ignoring the fact that John isn't there, he begins talking aloud and pretending John is listening.<br/>He gets a temporary job at the morgue and is followed home by a young girl. They become friends and when Sherlock leaves, they begin writing letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

A man stood in a small hallway. The hallway consisted of a smooth floor, the kind that looked crummy but was very cheap to clean. The air smelled of disinfectant and perfume. In a neat line, were three doors made of metal. One had a threadbare welcome mat, a result of someone's pathetic attempt at cheering the place up. Another had deflated balloons attached to the handle. The third, in front of which the man was standing, was completely bare, apart from some rude graffiti on the right of the handle. It was a kind of discreet place. Even the graffiti was discreet, hiding in corners near the doors.

The man, of course, was the very man who had faked his death earlier that day. He was still dressed in his murder clothes, but he was wearing a hoodie over them. It was amazing what a hoodie could do to hide someone. He'd found the hoodie in an alley near the hospital, by luck. A young man must have taken it off when doing something illegal (by the stains on the hoodie, it was probably graffiti.) and abandoned it when the police came.

Sherlock looked around the empty hallway. The silence echoed on the smooth plaster walls. He scrutinized the scene and listened hard for footsteps. No one seemed to be around, so far, so good. He pulled out the keys to his flat and unlocked the door.

Something caught his eye, a footprint, barely visible in the dim light, but just a faint dull mark in front of his door. He slowed down so minutely that a casual passerby would not have noticed, but then decided to ignore it. He did not recognise the print, but from the shoe size and the smell of perfume, it was a simple deduction that the cleaning lady was on a date. Judging from the brand of perfume, she either hadn't been on one for a while, or was particularly attached to the young man.

He considered congratulating her, but then remembered that he was no longer Sherlock Holmes now but Hamish Carr. Who would expect Hamish Carr to know all of those things? He sighed. Being normal was boring. He'd only been normal for a few hours and he was beginning to hate it.

He entered his flat and locked the door behind him.

"Watson, where did you put my-" He paused, and coughed. The silence unsettled him. He was used to silence from Watson, especially as Watson wasn't always there when they had their delightful conversations. This silence was painful though. It was a silence that spoke hot, burning words.

_You won't ever see him again._

"Shut up."

_Make me._

He pulled a pen out of his pocket and threw it aside.

"Day 1. Haven't touched a single cigarette." He put his head on one side. "Well I only just entered the flat, but it's a good start. I'll have a look around, shall I?" He contemplated the room he was standing in. He'd rented the flat in minutes without even entering. It wasn't how he usually did things but he needed somewhere to stay and he didn't exactly have friends anymore.

Hamish was going to be normal. He was going to have a new job, a new place to stay and he would definitely never touch a magnifying glass. Not if his life depended on it.

The flat consisted of a small kitchen-slash-dinning room, a bathroom with a small shower and a small bedroom. The owner had been very neat, everything was clean and tidy. Every surface was uncovered. There were several coffee stains on the kitchen counter, and a small part of the couch was obviously more worn out than the rest of it.

He placed the previous owner between nineteen and early twenties, the sort that drank a lot of coffee to stay ahead of exams and go to work. A quick scan under the couch revealed the owner had had a cat, since there was fur and a wool ball under the couch. This placed him a bit higher up the age scale. Perhaps late twenties, an office worker with a hectic schedule but a decent enough salary to afford an acceptable flat and a pet. Most probably single.

The flat was still, boring, dreary, yawn producing, blah, tedious, wearisome and dull. Hamish wished he'd brought his violin but it was now eleven in the evening and all the music shops would be closed. He didn't even know if Hamish was a music playing-type.

He gazed out of the window and observed the street. Average, ordinary people going about their ordinary lives. Oh, and there was a music shop nearby, maybe he could visit it.

His eyes wandered towards the hospital roof. A plethora of bad memories swarmed around him. Regret sneaked in among the memories when it thought no one was looking. John may have known Sherlock, but he didn't know Mr Carr. And he never would.

It was for his own good.

_You won't ever see him again._

Lies.

_So you will?_

He just won't see me, it's better that way.

"Write this down, will you, Watson?" He asked loudly, trying to be oblivious to the silence around him. He was speaking to John, it didn't matter if John wasn't there, it hadn't mattered before. "Day 1. Haven't touched a cigarette. I told you I was a fraud. Somehow I don't think you believed me. Does it matter? I need a cigarette. Or a case. Either one will do, oh damn. I can't exactly investigate... John, I don't want to smoke. It isn't good for me. You know it isn't.

"I don't want to go against the, hah, doctor's orders. It's late. I should go to sleep. It's been a long day. I'm not tired but I should sleep. I need to sleep; it's good for me. That's what you'd say. It's what you always say. You care about my health although I don't understand why.

"John? I think I'll go to sleep." He didn't. He sat on the couch and stared at the wall for hours, sitting on that couch. The world faded into that blur it always becomes when your eyes stay focused too long. He must have blinked, but didn't remember. The world was a haze, and Hamish was alone with his thoughts.

His eyes drooped down as the sun crept over the small window. He felt as if he was falling. There were shouts, someone was yelling his name. It was John's voice. He hit the bag and rolled off, turning his collar up as the network pulled the inflatable bag away. "Sherlock, Sherlock..." he could hear John's whispers pounding like drums in his head. Blood, wiped on his face. A fake body. Now John would be hit. Suddenly they were both on the ground, Sherlock with the rubber ball under his arm. John was up and rushing towards him. "Let me come through, I'm a doctor! He's my friend, let me come through..." Shaking hands gripped his wrist and there was a groan of "Oh God no..." and suddenly he was falling again. He was falling towards John, John was on the ground, he was shot. Sherlock wanted to help, but he crashed onto John and then, back again. Falling.

His leg kicked up and hit the small coffee table.

The noise and pain in his leg woke him. He eyeballed the guilty foot, eyes like spears.

"A nightmare, interesting. Day 2, I suppose, although I can't have been in this flat for more than a few hours."


	2. Day 2

 

He needed a clear image of who Hamish was going to be. A personality to use, a persona to become. He knew Mycroft would need him to look rather different on the new ID cards they would be creating for him. He had already located a nearby clothing store. All that was needed was a personality, the person reflected in the disguise.

It was time to become Hamish. With a plan in mind, Mr Carr left through the very door that Sherlock had come through only hours before.

He was still dressed in his hoodie and coat. The hoodie would eventually be insufficient, especially if he went to work, so he needed a change in appearance. 

He headed to Marks and Spencers. It was a few blocks away, so he didn't need to take a cab. It was cheap but good quality clothing. Hamish would have to make do with it.

When he entered the store, he chose to buy a few shirts, clean underwear and some smart trousers. He needed something with class for the job interview he would be having soon. He added some sunglasses and normal glasses to the list. With considerable annoyance, he even opted for a few simple ties. Mildly embarrassed, he had to ask a shop attendant to help him tie the tie.

By the time he had purchased all the goods, he could have very easily passed for an average man. He then left the store and went to another one further into town to buy some more casual jeans, t-shirts and hoodies.

He realised that he had left his own phone on the roof at Bart's, so he bought a new one. It was much cheaper than his old one, but he wouldn't keep it for long as he knew Mycroft would get him a special one for his adventures abroad.

He dashed back to his flat and carefully indexed his clothes before putting them in his wardrobe. He put some boxers and dark jeans on. He threw on a t-shirt with "WHO'S YO DADDY?" printed on it, recoiled in disgust and slipped a hoodie over the top to hide it.

So now he looked a bit more normal, he could go and see a barbers. He wondered who to go to, because whoever it was would have to look at his face for a few minutes, and could potentially recognise him. He decided to risk it and just find the nearest one.

After a few minutes of slowly strolling through the streets of London, Hamish found the place he was looking for. No one was waiting so he didn't have to spend hours looking through magazines and finding the whole thing tedious. He rarely went to hairdressers, unless his brother or his mother cajoled him into doing so. He felt the whole business was rather unnecessary. Besides, he liked his hair.

"So how would we like our hair done today?" asked a middle-aged woman with a weary smile. Hamish turned, trying his best not to guess her marital status and how many pets she had. She was making it painfully obvious with her circle of white skin where a ring would be and the fur on her leg.

"I need a short back and sides, and could you dye it blonde?" he replied.

"Certainly young sir! But are you sure? Your hair just suits you so well as it is!"

Hamish grimaced. "I don't think so, I'd prefer it cut," he lied.

So she sat him down in the chair, washed his hair with jasmine scented shampoo, twice,  rinsed and combed it. All whilst nattering on about the nonsense people seem to find interesting. Dull. Then, a word she used caught his attention.

"Sorry?"

"I said, ain't he a funny chap, that Sherlock? All over the news yesterday! Man is a fraud, faked his intelligence an' everything!" she grinned at him.

"Oh, yeah, that."  _It'd be really nice if you could fake the ability to speak English._

"Honestly, I don't see why the media cares so much, they're all frauds really," opined an older man getting his beard trimmed.

Stop cheating on your wife and say that to my face. "Yeah, they are, sad really," sighed Hamish.

"Oy, methinks that if a man is smart enough to come up with such a strategy just to boast, then he's pretty damn smart. Respect," said a younger man.

"People died, Larry! That's heartless!" said the woman.

"Betcha they was actors too, though. Plus I think me an' Sherlock 'd get along just fine, on the same wavelength, you know what I mean?"

_No idea, your wavelength is obviously several dozen IQ points below mine_. "Yeah, I see what you mean." Hamish drifted back to ignoring them. He fought the boredom by planning his next step.

He would have to get a job at St Bart's, since Mycroft wouldn't be able to make sure he had the financial support he needed for the next month of waiting for his ID to be ready. This meant Molly would have to enter the equation, she could definitely get him a job. She also didn't care that he was on the run, which would have been a terrible problem if she did. Who knew, maybe he could even get her to cheer up John. If there was anything he regretted in the whole sorry affair, it was John.

"What do you think, dearie?" asked the woman, finishing. Hamish blinked slowly and considered the reflection looking back at him. It seemed bare. Still recognisable, but a different colour and shape so that most would not see the resemblance on the spot.

_John would recognise you, he'd know you anywhere._

He won't see me.

"I like it, um, thank you very much," He got up and reached for his wallet.

"That'll be twenty pounds, pet."

He handed her the money. Next step, Mycroft. Leaving the place, he checked his new phone to see the time. Quarter to two, he had plenty of time. He needed to see Baker street to know what was going on.

He got into a cab and told the driver where to go. They were there within minutes. He hastily gave the driver the cash he owed him before pulling his hood up and walking up the street he knew so well. He saw John talking to Mycroft in front of a cafe and eavesdropped as discreetly as he could.

"...Tomorrow, though? Isn't that a bit soon? Don't they need to organise the ceremony and all that?" asked John, holding what Hamish knew to be an invitation to his funeral.

"I suppose they just want to get it over with."

"You can't possibly agree with this! You know Sherlock isn't a fraud, he's your brother for Christ's sake! This isn't right! We can't even mourn him properly! I haven't even been allowed to see the body!" John's face was red with anger, his fists tight.

"You don't think he's alive, do you? Listen, we both saw the body, you saw it land, I saw it at the morgue, there's no way he could get out of it. He may be a genius, but I seriously doubt his abilities are that good. I'm sorry John, I am. I told you I was worried."

"IT'S YOUR OWN DAMN FAULT IF HE'S DEAD IN THE FIRST PLACE!" yelled John, pointing a shaky finger at Mycroft. "It was you who sold his life story, you who told me to look after him rather than taking responsibility for it!"

Mycroft backed away, his face remained impassive.

"Okay, okay. It wasn't your fault, I'm just... So angry..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I can finish this and not get side-tracked... I tend to do that a lot. (btw if you guys want to follow me, which is totally up to you, my tumblr url is mybilingualismismyotp.tumblr.com )


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